


Sherlock and Mary's Conspiracy

by FatlockFills



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fat John, Fatlock, Other, Weight Gain, dub con, dub-con, jamlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-16 01:24:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2250651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FatlockFills/pseuds/FatlockFills
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anonymous said: Request: Sherlock and Mary are feeding up John and he doesn't even realise. That is till he rips his trousers at a crime scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock and Mary's Conspiracy

"Mary and I think it’s seven."

That line should have stuck in John’s head. His only defense was that he’d had a lot on his plate at the time.

He always seemed to have a lot on his plate lately. If it wasn’t Mary giving him half her dinner because it suddenly “didn’t agree with the baby,” it was Sherlock handing him entire unopened boxes of take away and pointing him to a fridge overloaded with Mrs. Hudson’s goodies.

The cycling. It should have been a clue in and of itself. Because it didn’t get easier. Every day he hated himself and his life as he dragged that bloody thing to the curb and kicked off. He had to leave earlier, he had to pedal through fog and rain and mud, and then shower and get ready at work when he’d rather have hopped a bus or the tube and gotten there faster, after having spent more time in bed. But his weight was ticking up, so he had to cycle—four pounds in one month wasn’t normal weight fluctuation. Especially when it was closer to seven. Especially when a thirty minute bike ride twice a day wasn’t cutting it down. Three weeks after he started cycling, his mornings were more miserable than ever. It was, if anything, harder to get up the hills than it had been. 

Getting old was a bitch.

"Going to examine the body?" Sherlock peered up at him from the ground, and John blew out a frustrated breath. His trousers were already digging into his waist. Squatting down next to a putrid, sort of half MELTED face… "John?" 

"Alright, yes, alright!" John stepped forward and squatted down. His knees popped from the unexpected motion, and over the twin gunshots he didn’t hear his pants go. He felt them, London’s damp chill suddenly crawling into the crack of his arse through a thin pair of pants and nothing more. "Sherlock," John said, staring straight ahead. "Coat."

The detective looked over, and his face was a mask of sympathy—but for one second it had been amusement bordering on delight. The coat was handed over.

"Not a word to Mary," John said, putting on the taller, more ridiculous man’s ill fitting and ridiculous coat.

"I must. She was betting it wouldn’t happen until next week."


End file.
